In
December 1995, the Canadian Folk Music Bulletin published a
retrospective interview on my life and times in folk music called
"That's what folk songs have always done....". I call it "My
Obituary". The following are exerpts. A section on the making
of Sulphur Passage and another on my favourites among my songs
appear elsewhere on this site. Even then, there are sections
I have left out. (God, it was a long interview.) If you want
to read the whole thing, get in touch. Thanks to George W. Lyon,
John Leeder and the Canadian Society for Traditional Music.

The
old folksinger defines folksinging

CFMB:
Since you are a banjo player known for your political songs,
it seems a good guess that Pete Seeger has been a big influence
on you.

photo
by Andy Mons

What
I do is similar in many ways to what Pete has done, but I
don't do what I do because he did it. Undoubtedly the path
is easier for me to go down because he cleared the trail.
But I never modelled myself after Pete. I don't see much similarity
in our music. There is more similarity in our subjects, and
even more in what we don't take for our subjects. He didn't
write and sing because there was a market niche for some song
or subject and neither do I. We're folksingers, he long before
me. And there are not a lot of modern folksingers, at least
by my definition.

Which
is?

Folk
music is the music that rises naturally from a community.
As a definition, that may not be airtight, but I see it like
this: Making music is an absolutely natural thing to do, as
natural as running, as natural as speaking. I can sure see
that in my two-year-old. People just sing. And left to our
own devices, we'd sing about anything we'd talk about. People
have always sung their protests, just as they have sung their
love. They made up songs about their friends. About tragedies,
controversies, work. They made up songs for weddings, played
tunes for the dance, made up a ditty and dedicated it to someone
for a birthday. If people in the community were talking about
something -- cutting down a forest, putting in a highway --
they sang about it too.

But
that natural music-making dropped off as the music industry
took over and inserted itself between the makers of music
and the consumers of music. Songs became commodities you purchase
pre-fab. In order to have music, we think we have to pay Sony.
We think real music is something you buy a ticket to hear.
They hooked us, made music slick and mass-produced, and replaced
the music that comes naturally. But the natural thing is to
be singing in our own way about our own subjects, including
lots of subjects that now get weeded out by the censorship
of the marketplace.

That's
what folksingers do; they still sing those other songs. That's
what Seeger has done, and that's what I do. We're throwbacks.
We are professional folksingers, which is almost a contradiction
in terms, though not quite. Because while we do sing for money,
we don't create the stuff for the money. If I wasn't being
paid I would still write and sing pretty much the same songs.
I don't think "Oh, here's a song that could really get popular"
or "Here's a song that I could sell to so-and-so." I know
there are people that write that way. In fact, they write
some really nifty stuff. But I'm not one of them. I write
about the things on my mind, which are the things on the minds
of people in my community.

How
the old folksinger got that way

What
got you started in music? What got you started as a career musician?

Like
I say, singing was like breathing. I just sang, we all did.
My dad used to sing as he walked around the house, and my
mom did too. I was also raised around show business. My dad
was a booking agent, booking acts into night clubs in southern
Ontario. We went out to lots of clubs and shows, and my dad
would bring the entertainers home for a meal. So show business
was a pretty natural milieu for me.

I
started performing in school shows as soon as I was old enough
to do it. I did imitations - Ed Sullivan and the like. And
took great joy in it. You see, I was a terrible athlete; maybe
that's why I started to perform. It was something I had a
knack for, as opposed to catching a ball, for which I had
no talent at all.

So
that was the beginning. Playing music came later. In fact,
I got Ds in music at school. But I listened to music, the
pop of the day. The radio in the kitchen would play, "Hummin'bird,
hummin'bird, sing me your song" and "The wayward wind is a
restless wind" and "Have you talked to the Man upstairs, 'cause
he wants to hear from you?" - pre-rock-n-roll pop music.

He
discovers rock and roll

Then
- I think it was 1954 - the radio changed and, all of a sudden,
there was "Rock Around the Clock" by Bill Haley & The
Comets, and shortly after that, the early Elvis records. And,
boy oh boy, they were something! They just rocked, they touched
me, they were rebellious. I wanted to be like Elvis and, at
the age of 9, I asked for a guitar. I didn't get an electric
guitar, because you needed an amplifier.

That's
where it started, rock and roll on the radio and too, and
my parents didn't want to spring for it. They thought I wouldn't
stick with it. So I got a $20 Serenader.

That's
where it started, rock and roll on the radio and G, C and
D7 on the top three strings of the Serenader. I begged my
dad to take me to the touring rock and roll shows that came
through Toronto. I saw Fats Domino, Gene Vincent, Buddy Holly,
The Platters, Elvis.

But
then, very quickly, as I recall, rock and roll turned bland.
For maybe three really good years, it was wonderful, raunchy,
rebellious music - Little Richard and Jerry Lee Lewis, people
like that - and then suddenly it was "Sixteen candles make
a lovely light, but not as bright as your eyes tonight." Industrialized
music pitched to a generic teen market. Pat Boone singing
"Long Tall Sally" in a squeaky clean voice.

He
hears Tom Dooley

Then
in '59, when rock and roll was at its nadir, I heard "Tom
Dooley." It stopped me in my tracks. This was a song that
seemed to be about something. Was it a true story? Were these
real people? I was fascinated. Musically, as sung by the Kingston
Trio, it was, shall we say, plain. But it hinted at a story,
and I wanted to know the story.

So
I went to see the Kingston Trio when they came to town, and,
during the show, they said, "There's a group coming up that
you are going to hear a lot about, called Peter, Paul and
Mary." And, sure enough, a few months later, Peter, Paul and
Mary came through. They were certainly a step up, musically.
From there it was a short step to Ian and Sylvia, whose music,
particularly on their early records, was pretty much timeless
- it still stands up today. They opened the door into real,
not-commercialized folk music. People like the Reverend Gary
Davis. If they passed through Toronto, I went.

So
I fell into folk music. It was really very easy to do because
it was this unique moment in music history when folk was a
craze. It had little to do with the actual folk elements of
the music, and was probably anathema to it, but folk was on
the radio and in the clubs. So there was a sea of folk music
to swim in, and I did. I stopped listening to pop music and
never really started again.

He
ignores his mother's advice and
chooses a career in folk music

How
did you get into music as a career?

The
real impetus was political. In the late 60s, early 70s, so
much was happening all over the world. The Viet Nam war was
on. Paris, Prague, Columbia University all exploded in '68.
The same year, Rochdale College opened in Toronto. (That's
a story in itself.) The killings at Kent State were in '70.
Canadian campuses were less turbulent - we are Canadians after
all - but it was probably the most exciting moment of the
century to be around the university, and I just had the luck
to be there. We really thought we could change the world.
We were na´ve, but in our na´vety we threw ourselves into
the biggest issues of the time with all our passion and energy.
It was a wonderful time to be 20 years old.

At
the same time, the hippie culture flowered, and the hippies,
whatever else they represented, were people who, like the
young radicals, certainly rejected bourgeois values. So I
found the hippie culture exciting too - though I was never
innocent enough to be a dyed-in-the-wool flower child.

The hippies brought with them a whole new batch of music.
Music was sacred to that movement - as it is to all political
movements. Everything from the Beatles (who were like a singing
advertisement for LSD), to the Jefferson Airplane ("We are
all outlaws in the eyes of Amerika"). The music wasn't just
music, it was the voice of our rebellion.

And
I thought, in 1970 (at the ripe old age of 24), if I have
a gift, it is to take ideas and cast them into plain language.
So I thought I saw a useful, socially-responsible role for
myself: I could use folk music to express the alternate, counter-culture,
socialistic vision a bunch of us seemed to hold in common
and, in that way, reach young people already keen on changing
the world. Na´ve as hell, but there is also something sweet
and admirable in that seriousness of purpose.

And,
as it turns out, that is precisely what I've done. It has
proved to be enormously more difficult than I thought. I have
influenced a lot fewer people than I dreamed about. I think
had I known how tough a road it was going to be, I might have
been wise to choose a different career. But in fact my path
has been straight as an arrow.

Stringband
and Canadian nationalism

Back
in the 1970's when Stringband was in its heyday you used slogans
like "thoroughly Canadian" and "God save The King". There was
a twinkle in your eye, but were you also consciously trying
to represent Canadian culture in song?

Absolutely,
though the consciousness grew out of the experience, it didn't
precede it. I always liked something Doug Fetherling said
about Stringband in Saturday Night magazine, back before it
became the right wing rag it is today. Fetherling said, "They
search relentlessly for what they think is a Canadian Sound.
Not finding it they have perhaps invented it." We definitely
did set out to find and write and sing songs that reflected
the particular lives of people in different corners of the
country. That was a unique thing to do back then. I like to
think that we helped clear the path for those who are doing
it now, and there are a lot of them. By singing Dief Will
Be the Chief Again we opened a door, we gave a kind of permission
to sing about our own particularities.

Of
course in some ways the border between the US and Canada is
a false distinction as far as music goes. The rise of sheet
music had the same effect either side of the border. Or the
rise of the player piano or of radio - the various industrial
interventions that turned music into a saleable commodity.
The commercial society, the capitalist society, has marginalized
folk music, the natural music of a community, both sides of
the border. In fact community itself has been marginalized.
We - Stringband - just went back there for our music. The
particulars were Canadian because we were.

The
old folksinger reflects on the state of
the nation yet still finds a reason to believe

You
mention community a lot. How do you define community?

That's
a good question, and I don't have a neat answer. But in practice,
I suppose I define community as people with shared interests
they hold separate from and, indeed in spite of, the onslaught
of commercial and political propaganda raining down on us.

We
live in a time and in a society that must be one of the most
heavily and most successfully propagandized in history. There
is so much pressure to disavow our own communities' needs
and experience (and indeed our own personal needs and experience)
and substitute the proscribed attitudes churned out by the
centre of money, power and mass communications.

For
instance, these days many people, maybe even most people,
really believe that the country is broke. We have been told
that so often. We can't afford medicare, or unemployment insurance,
or battered women's shelters because we're broke. It's propaganda,
a posture. It has nothing to do with our own experience. Just
look around. Walk down Bloor Street in Toronto, 4th Avenue
in Vancouver, walk through Kensington in Calgary, then tell
me the country is broke! We are rich as Croesus. As a society,
we can afford VCRs, handi-cams, CD players, cable TV, the
Blue Jays, The Phantom of the Opera - but we can't afford
medicare? In Ontario they reduce the income of welfare mothers
to "fight the deficit," and then give a tax break to people
who are better off to "stimulate the economy." It takes a
powerful load of propaganda to make people swallow something
so obviously contradictory, so openly self-serving. But the
propaganda is incredibly pervasive. It is damn hard not to
be taken in, hard to trust your own experience and not substitute
the "wisdom" of the rich, articulate guys in suits who dominate
TV, radio and the press. I mean, Geoffrey Simpson looks knowledgeable,
he sounds knowledgeable and he is saying the same thing they
are all saying... if he thinks the emperor's new clothes are
terrific, they must be.

But communities, whether defined by geography or shared concerns,
do have their own real interests and histories. Stretched
far enough, the veil of propaganda starts to tear, and those
real interests, that real experience, comes back into focus.
Inherent in the domination of public discourse by the rich
and powerful is its antithesis, because in many ways we can
feel that our own community values are just not there. I think
the next few years are going to see a very exciting fight
over the soul of the country. I am not a Pollyanna about this.
The bad guys are winning. If they get their way, and they
very well might, they could do such damage to the fabric of
the country, the fabric of our communities, they could so
Americanize us, that it will take generations to recover.

The
same forces are at play when it comes to music. The entertainment
industry juggernaut has certainly marginalized folk music,
just as the political juggernaut has marginalized community
itself - the source of folk music. Being a folksinger was
never an easy job, but now it is harder than ever. The cultural
organizations that have played an important part keeping non-commercial
culture enterprises afloat - including folk singers - are
being cut to the bone. Meanwhile the commercial entertainment
alternatives, from watching videos at home to spending $100
to see Showboat, have never been more pervasive, more hyped.
I seriously doubt whether Stringband could have kept going,
had those days been like these.

And
yet, and yet ... people like you and me, people who like the
music, who like the heart it has, feel the absence. And given
the opportunity, we will express our own community interest.
That is what happened with GABRIOLA V0R1X0.

When
I decided to record again, after being away from the studio
for something like 15 years, I wasn't very confident. Would
an album by an old folksinger get any play? Would there be
venues where I could perform? Would I be able to sell more
than 200 copies to die-hard old Stringband fans? To be confident
would have been to be foolish. So I decided to fundraise.
I set out to raise $5000. When the dust had settled, I raised
$25,000! It was the single most rewarding experience of my
working life. It was my Academy Award. Of course it was flattering;
it is wonderful to feel that appreciated.

But
I think something else was going on: I think people saw a
chance to fight back against the system, against the music
industry, to express solidarity with their own community's
music. And as a result of their intervention, I was able to
once again put out songs expressing the values we share. I
was able to express my (and our) equivocal thoughts about
marriage and parenting in these times. I was able to make
a song out of our anger and hurt at the destruction of the
wilderness - and our determination to stop it. And those expressions
go back into the community, and strengthen it against the
rain of propaganda. That's what I do. That's what folk songs
have always done.

I
think now, as I get older, it is my fate to remain fairly
obscure, to be a marginal performer who has little impact
on mainstream culture. What I do won't be the lead story in
the entertainment section of The Globe, it won't get rotation
on MuchMusic. I won't play the Glenn Gould Theatre or do a
guest spot with Rita McNeill. Too bad. But I know how much
effect my work has on people in my community, who take the
energy of my songs and channel it into their work, and their
work encourages someone else. That's the legacy of what I
do, and that feels pretty good to me.